


invaluable, dependable

by DidiNyx



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Banter, Canon Universe, Comfort No Hurt, Dating, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Short & Sweet, Sleepy Cuddles, Teasing, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidiNyx/pseuds/DidiNyx
Summary: He was home. It always blew Watson’s mind that his idea of home was with the most eccentric man in London-- maybe the world-- writing and helping with cases of all levels of ambiguity, of being comfortable and taken care of.Watson was initially a soldier, a man who had to face his indecisive mind as to what he should do for a living. But it was so easy around Sherlock. All life consisted of were cases, rides, music, meetings, couches and… and everything Sherlock radiated so effortlessly.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	invaluable, dependable

**Author's Note:**

> yk i could've posted this for valentine's day but whatever this works too-

Sherlock finished his very detailed account of the lengthy and exhilarating case that was of the Baskervilles, stretched contently and yawned. He then turned towards Watson with those sparkly gray eyes and a small smile that didn’t cease to be lively and said, “Well, dear Watson, after such an eventful three weeks we should rest peacefully. I say we grab dinner and warm up next to this fire later.”

Watson was taken aback a little from the sudden proposal. Not that Sherlock’s end-of-mission activities were ever closed off from his friend, it just slipped in so _casual_ despite how tired he could have been from running around. Even for Sherlock, who becomes so eager for these adventures, had been moving around a lot lately in general, and Watson could even go as far as to say that he didn’t get much sleep as usual. Watson certainly didn’t, and though Sherlock had most likely deduced that, he insisted anyway. Perhaps the biggest worry was simply, _Watson didn’t want to be a bother._ He had given Sherlock quite a fright after he abandoned his post and it seemed, for an instant, Sir Henry of Baskerville was dead and it would’ve been a great loss to Sherlock’s pride. Watson said that he’d never forgive himself if the case would’ve turned out any other way, if he would have let everybody-- especially his companion-- down.

“Are you sure it’s not a hassle? We arrived here quite quickly.”

“Dear fellow, it’s no struggle at all. I don’t want to rest so easily just yet, and besides, we remain victorious. Why not celebrate a little?” He fixed his cap into place and stood up, smoothing his thin jacket. “I know you must be tired, but there’s nothing to fix it as much as a hearty meal before deep sleep. It may take a while to recover from all the action, and it would be a shame to waste all of it out and not back outside in the London air!” He clasped his hands and faced Watson. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but for you, in all your medically-trained sense, this is ab effective method.”

Watson sighed, relieved. “Yes, it does, Holmes. I suppose I didn’t eat that much at Baskerville anyway, now that I think of it. Your statement runs true.”

“Good!” He grabbed Watson’s coat and handed it to him. “Now put on this and we shall be on our way! I already told Mrs. Hudson we’d be leaving soon.”

Watson chuckled. “And if I would’ve refused?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though he still smiled. “Oh, you wouldn’t have. Besides, I’m sure I could have convinced you.”

Watson hummed and put on the coat. “Alright, lead the way, Detective.”

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and walked towards the door. Watson missed the slight twitch of his hands, wanting to be sought out by Watson’s own. And he didn’t note the shiver of excitement and longing to be close to Watson physically that Sherlock suppressed as much as he could.

*

However, they ended up holding hands anyway soon enough. They hailed a cab and were sent privately on their way, fretting the chill and their aching backs. Truthfully, neither minded too much of their own woes and more of taking care of the other. Sherlock lent his hand out to Watson, helping him into the cab. The slim, nimble fingers and warm palm of Sherlock’s stirred a sort of admiration from Watson as he grabbed on to his friend, flushing slightly and wondering why he had to be a gentleman at the most unexpected times. Before Watson could thank him Sherlock already began talking about how wonderful the restaurant was and commented idly about the streets of London they both missed. 

There was a pause after a while, a comfortable silence around the men. Watson wondered what he should say, what would be adequate for his partner to hear after an abrupt return home. Sherlock could ramble without any problem, and kept the listener entertained. Watson had more trouble picking out the small details, the relevance of anything surrounding him. He was good with people but he never said too much.

Sherlock didn’t mind this, but still, what to say? All Watson knew that an incredible feeling of joy-- an embarrassing amount of joy-- lept in his heart at simply sitting next to Sherlock and knowing he had been of some assistance to Sherlock’s investigations. 

He was home. It always blew Watson’s mind that his idea of home was with the most eccentric man in London-- maybe the world-- writing and helping with cases of all levels of ambiguity, of being comfortable and taken care of. Watson was initially a soldier, a man who had to face his indecisive mind as to what he should do for a living. But it was so easy around Sherlock. All life consisted of were cases, rides, music, meetings, couches and… and everything Sherlock radiated so effortlessly.

Was it wrong to be so attached, so relying on Sherlock and Baker Street?

Watson said the most simple thing that could sum everything up: “Thank goodness we’re back.”

Sherlock, who was resting his head while looking out the window, turned to him with all the patience and endearment known to man. “Well, it’s not like London ever left _us._ ”

Watson nodded. “Very true.”

“This city…” Sherlock looked up dreamily. “Is my second favorite thing in this whole world.”

“Second? I daresay general detective work is first.”

“Actually, third,” Sherlock said with a chuckle.

“What?” Watson tilted his head. “Not first?”

“No, my dear friend. It sounds rather bizarre-- even to myself, but it’s true. Though I would still have no use living without my detective work, if I were to sacrifice that for the good of London I would. There’s always the smallest things in life-- if you look hard enough, and have the will to understand and accept-- that make us the happiest even when he serve no definite purpose.” His voice was clear, distinct, but lacked coolness. 

“I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes my mind burdens me with the possibilities of what would happen if we were to run out of cases. It’s illogical since crime is an everyday occurrence, and so are unusual circumstances that puzzle even the most rational. But with all the knowledge of the strange and unusual comes an understanding that even we could face some unpredictable strife.”

Sherlock hummed, consider this as his hands folded together. “I definitely agree. I hope our many victories gives you confidence in our survival rate, however.”

“Well, of course.”

Sherlock glanced at me. “Perhaps our stress comes from the things left undone and unsaid. Here, we are just about to arrive at our destination, and soon after you can confide in me, dear fellow, any lingering thoughts about our adventure. But for now, let’s just be glad of this wondrous evening.”

*

Dinner was merry and resulted in many laughs about the odd observations Sherlock made about the people at the restaurant. It became a game now, for Watson to come up with an absurd story about the strangers that looked particularly notable, and for Sherlock to only give the most out of context details about them. Then Sherlock would reveal the truth, and Watson had no choice but to add on to his initial stories all the randomness Sherlock threw at him and try to be consistent. Sherlock had to muffle his laugh and hide his smile when the waiter came up to their table and had to make sure he didn’t offend someone by saying anything too loud. Before the champagne hit their lips they were already delighted from the amusing, embracing night.

They shared one bottle together, and though they did engage in some silly banter (it started when Sherlock accidentally kicked Watson’s foot from under the table), they were sober and soon walked out to the car, Sherlock gently coaxing Watson’s hand in his yet again. Watson complied easily and didn’t question it.

“I’m so ready to sleep now,” Watson said softly, and Sherlock laughed. He squeezed under Watson’s touch and caressed the doctor’s thumb with his own, as if lulling to bed.

*

Back at home, they collapsed on the couch, shoulders touching and a blanket spilling around them. It happened so naturally. As soon as they stripped their jackets off, they placed the blanket between them and curled up into each other’s warmth. Sherlock’s ache for touch was solved when Watson carefully wrapped his arms around the thin body that laid so close to him, and especially when Watson rubbed the grooves of the taller man’s back tenderly. Sherlock’s hands rested between Watson’s neck and shoulder as he nuzzled his forehead and kissed his temple.

“I assume you are comfortable?” Sherlock asked, only a little timid. 

“Very much so,” Watson said genuinely. “Actually, I’ve been restlessly waiting this type of reassurance. I hope… that is okay.” Watson couldn’t hide his vulnerability as well.

Sherlock hugged Watson tighter, burying his head into Watson’s chest. The skin on his chest and abdomen and sides itched with the contact, as if he were being tickled deliberately. “Definitely, inarguably okay, my dear.”

“I… thank you, Sherlock.” And more naturally: “You are my deepest treasure.”

“And you are mine,” Sherlock said as he kissed Watson’s jaw. “More than adventure…” He kissed Watson’s neck. “More than knowledge…” Now farther down his neck. “More than London…” He lifted his head to kiss Watson’s lips as gingerly as possible. “You are my favorite thing to exist in the world. It wouldn’t be as nice here without you.”

Watson leaned into every touch and continued to move his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides as he returned several kisses. Their lips pressed slightly harder, met longer and came back sooner too. What remained regardless was a love of all innocent, soft, and deepest desires, a peaceful clash of emotion. When Sherlock’s hands twitched nervously and heart sped up, Watson kissed each finger slowly and Sherlock seemed to melt as he sighed and closed his eyes. 

With arms flung around each other, Sherlock said: "It's so wonderful, that I love you. I love you so much, John, I don't know how I'm so alright with that fact and how familiar it all is, but I love you. I want you to be my partner for life." He said it calmly, clearly, with a definite tone.

"I love you too, I-I can't thank you enough."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but instead closed his eyes and pressed closer. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is pure self indulgence. they're just such comfort characters, I couldn't resist. besides, I've been rereading the sherlock series and remembered how vibrant sherlock's character is. :) plus the pair has so many small loving moments, it just makes me weak.
> 
> i wasn't going to make it as fluffy towards the end but i figured you guys wouldn't mind too much


End file.
